Tuesday, March 13, 2007

A Poem About Eggplant, a.k.a aubergine

I never developed a taste for eggplant, but I always liked the name, "eggplant," and I like the alternate name even more: aubergine. I also like the color, the external texture, and the mystery of eggplant. So I wrote a poem about this vegetable--or is it a fruit? My apologies to fans of eggplant Parmesan. No offense intended. My homage to aubergine:


Eggplant, the bruise-fruit, heals

in a darkroom as photographs

of contusions develop.

Gathered in a farmer’s truck,

eggplants appear ready to travel

into outer space, there to visit

purple planets in our galaxy.

The mayor has disappeared.

He was last seen getting into

a taxicab near the produce-market.

He was accompanied by an eggplant,

which he carried in a burgundy valise.

Shiny, soft, and smooth,

eggplants suggest patent-leather

shoes worn by a species whose feet

differ from ours in certain respects.

Although I dislike eating

its slippery flesh, I pay

aubergine certain respects.

There is eggplant. There

it is—a pliable stone

sitting in purple patience

waiting for us to go away.

© 2006

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